by Andy Maslen
Jamie stood. ‘I can’t be with you right now. I’m going to find a hotel for tonight. Then I’m going back to Crowthorne first thing.’
‘But you’re coming back tomorrow night, like always, aren’t you? It’s the weekend.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go.’
Stella watched, helpless, as Jamie went into the bedroom to gather his things together. He emerged a few minutes later with a small bag and headed towards the door. He turned just before he left.
‘I’m sorry.’
And then he was gone. Just like that.
The door clicked shut. And Stella was left alone in her flat. The ruins of a delicious celebratory supper on the kitchen counter. A half-drunk bottle of champagne on the balcony table, and a rip in her soul.
She went outside and poured another glass of champagne and sat there drinking until the bottle was empty and her heartache was numbed and the moon illuminated the city with a white glow.
12
London
The following morning, after forcing herself to eat a breakfast of toast, peanut butter, coffee and painkillers, Stella walked to work. She could feel the alcohol still poisoning her system and dimly remembered hitting the vodka after the champagne was all gone.
Sleep had come upon her like a train. But then she’d woken at 2.55 a.m. and not slept since. She had no worries that Jamie would report her. After all, she’d explained that her actions had been officially sanctioned. But the pain of losing him – that was too much to bear.
As she arrived in SIU, massaging her right temple, Cam buttonholed her.
‘Morning, guv, you look rough as old boots and the big boss wants to see you.’
Stella grimaced. She’d seen her face in the mirror already and hadn’t enjoyed the sight. Cam’s judgement, truthfully delivered in her raspy South London accent, only fed the flames of her self-loathing.
As Stella walked up to the door of Callie’s office, she heard an unfamiliar voice, and accent, coming from inside. She knocked and entered.
Sitting with Callie was a man who gave off maximum-strength cop vibes. She thought it was probably the slouchy body language. Or the worn black leather jacket, black Levi’s and scuffed black boots. He stood.
He was on the short side, wiry build, lank, dirty-blonde hair swept back from a high, domed forehead. Haunted blue eyes under heavy brows. And a straggly blonde beard and moustache. All in all, she thought he was the ugliest man she had ever seen.
The male cop shook her hand. ‘Oskar Norgrim, pleased to meet you.’
His English was flawless, without a hint of an accent. The gentle, warm voice contrasted oddly with the imperfections of his face.
‘Hi. I’m Stella Cole. Callie, what’s this all about?’ Stella asked as Callie motioned for them to sit.
‘Detective Inspector Norgrim is with the National Operations Department of the Swedish Police Authority. Ambassador Jonasson summoned him to help with our investigation.’
Norgrim swung round in his seat to smile at Stella. ‘I’m here to offer any assistance you might find helpful, DCI Cole. You don’t need to hide your toes away. I won’t be stepping on them in my size twelves.’ He frowned. ‘Is that how you say it?’
‘Close enough. But we’re fine for resources, boss, honestly. I really don’t think we need to complicate the investigation with an outside force.’
‘Nobody’s saying you do,’ Callie said, flashing Stella a brief warning with her eyes. ‘But this has come down from on high via the Foreign Office.’
‘Ambassador Brömly was a Swedish national, murdered on British soil,’ Norgrim said. ‘I can coordinate things from the Swedish end to ensure you don’t miss anything in your investigation.’
Stella felt a flash of heat rise from the collar of her shirt. She knew she shouldn’t but she could feel a strong sense of territoriality washing through her.
‘I can assure you, we wouldn’t miss anything, whether or not we had outside assistance.’
‘No offence intended, DCI Cole. I am only here to help. Perhaps you could tell me where you have got to in your investigation,’ Norgrim said.
‘Fine,’ she said, hearing the petulant tone and unable to do anything about it. ‘Come and meet the team. I’ll brief you over there.’
They rose and as Stella turned to say goodbye she raised her eyebrows enquiringly at Callie. Why?
Callie’s level gaze spoke volumes. Don’t ask. And, You look like shit.
Also, Are you all right?
Leading Norgrim away from Callie’s office, Stella waved him to a chair at the cluster of tables SIU used as a conference space. She called the others to join them.
Once the introductions were out of the way, Stella asked each member of the team for a brief update.
‘I called the Swedish embassy and spoke to the chef. The one from Stockholm,’ Baz said. ‘He said there’s only one baker in London who uses caraway seeds in their kanelbullar. It’s called Kafé Valhalla. I called first thing this morning. The manager said they only make them with caraway on Thursdays. It’s some kind of regional speciality, apparently. Their CCTV is cloud-based. Our IT guys are hooking up a link so we can review it here.’
‘Excellent work, Baz,’ Stella said. ‘How’s the firearms angle coming, Garry?’
‘There are just two guys in London known for supplying nine-mil, hollow-point ammo,’ he said. ‘One’s doing a ten-stretch in the Scrubs, the other one’s been keeping a low profile of late. I’ve put the word out I want to talk to him.’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Norgrim said. ‘What is the “Scrubs”? A prison?’
‘Yeah. Officially, Wormwood Scrubs. Over Hammersmith way.’
Norgrim turned to Stella. ‘What is your working hypothesis?’
‘I think he was murdered to shut him up. He was dying of cancer and had apparently decided to confess to some sort of misdeed in his past. It looks as though three others were involved. He wrote to them shortly before he died.’
‘Do you have their names?’
‘Only their first names. Ove, Kerstin and Inger.’
Norgrim shrugged. ‘Very common Swedish given names. Do you have his phone or computer?’
‘We do. They’re both password-protected. I’ve put in a request with Apple to get the phone unlocked but that could take weeks. Our digital forensic team are looking at the laptop but he didn’t use a password or 1234 so it might take a while.’
‘How can I help?’ Norgrim asked.
‘Can you ask around the local Swedish community? We’ve made a start but maybe they’ll open up to you.’
‘Can you sort me out with a desk? A computer, maybe?’
Stella nodded. ‘We’ve had some cutbacks recently.’ She pointed at a handful of swept-clean desks. ‘Take your pick.’
She left Norgrim talking to the others and retreated to her office.
Inside the space she so rarely used, she closed the door and crossed the brief expanse of grey carpet to reach her desk. She slumped into the chair and rested her forehead on her fists. She knew she was being unfair on the Swedish cop, but she couldn’t help it.
How had it gone so wrong, so fast? One minute Jamie was suggesting they move in together – basically halfway to a proposal – then she’d royally screwed everything up.
What had she been thinking? That confessing would lead to Jamie’s opening his arms wide, growling, ‘Come here, tiger,’ and a night of drunken sex before deciding on soft furnishings for their new place? Stupid, stupid woman!
She pulled out her phone, intending to message him, then realised she had zero idea of what to say and pocketed it again. Though it was costing her plenty, she decided to let him make the next move. Her last had been devastating enough.
She distracted herself by calling the Swedish embassy to find out if they’d located Brömly’s next of kin. It turned out he had a younger brother, Anders, living in Uppsala. Stella thanked the researcher, took a note of the brother’s phone number a
nd prepared herself to make the call.
He answered on the fifth ring and, after asking him in rapidly memorised Swedish if he spoke English, Stella got to the meat of the call.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’
She explained about Brömly’s death, and that until the case was brought to court the coroner wouldn’t be able to release the body. Her questions about enemies proved fruitless. Anders and Tomas had not been close, he explained, and apart from seeing each other at Christmas and Midsommar, only kept in touch by email.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘If you think of anything, you can call me on this number.’
Sighing, she ended the call and went to see how Baz was getting on with the CCTV from Kafé Valhalla.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked, settling into a chair beside him.
‘I’ve done the Thursday before last. Now I’m on last Thursday.’
‘The day of the murder.’
‘Yeah, and so far I’m seeing a lot of people smiling and chatting with the staff but nobody who stands out. The manager said he mostly sells the specials to regulars,’ he said. ‘Apparently it’s a bit of a thing and they all know to arrive as soon as the kanellbullar come out of the oven.’
‘Nice pronunciation,’ Stella deadpanned. ‘Who taught you? Norgrim?’
Baz frowned. ‘You don’t like him, do you, Guv?’
Ignoring him, Stella jabbed her finger at the screen. ‘Go back.’
Baz moused over the on-screen controls and paused the playback. He hit Fast Rewind, stopped it and pressed play again. Stella leaned closer. Their heads almost touching, they watched the bakery’s customers coming and going for a couple of minutes. Sun streamed in through the big display window, casting strong dark shadows. Stella pointed at a figure.
‘There.’
The figure wearing a baseball cap froze in the act of reaching across the counter to accept a bag of pastries. From this angle, Stella couldn’t tell their sex. But what she picked up was a person wearing a coat on a hot summer’s day, with a cap pulled down to hide their face from the camera.
‘Man or woman?’ Baz asked, echoing her thoughts.
‘Can’t tell. Play it on and let’s take a look at the gait.’
The customer took the pastries, turned and left. On the short journey from counter to door, Stella couldn’t see anything that strongly suggested a male or female walk. The customer’s clothes didn’t help. A long dark trench coat worn unbelted flowed out from the shoulders, effectively disguising what might have been female curves.
Baz pointed at the chest area. ‘Is that a boob?’
Stella wrinkled her nose. ‘Or a crease in the fabric? I can’t tell. Bugger!’
‘I’ll go and talk to the manager,’ Baz said. ‘Maybe if they usually sell the specials to regulars, that guy stood out. They might have someone who served him and remembered the outfit or maybe how he spoke.’
Stella shook her head, then winced at the burst of pain it set off behind her eyes. ‘No. I’ll go. I need to get out for a bit.’
13
London
Sitting with Kafé Valhalla’s manager at a window table, Stella showed him the screen grabs she’d printed out of the mystery customer.
‘Do you remember this person?’ she asked.
The manager scratched his thin beard as he studied the photograph. Stella watched the way he touched the paper, as if trying to divine Cap’n Coat’s identity by direct contact with the image.
He looked up at Stella. ‘Sorry. He looks vaguely familiar, but if you’ve seen the CCTV footage you know how busy we get on Thursdays.’ He looked over at the serving counter. ‘Natasha was on last Thursday. I’ll go and get her.’
He sent over a young, skinny black girl wearing round turquoise glasses.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Joff said you wanted to see me?’
Stella motioned for her to sit down. ‘Yes. We’re trying to trace this person,’ she said, tapping the printout. ‘They came in last Thursday to buy your special kanelbullar. Do you remember seeing them?’
‘Why are you saying them? Are they, like, trans?’
‘No,’ she said with a smile. ‘I mean, not necessarily. But we don’t know if they’re male or female.’
She studied the photo.
‘I think I do. I mean we were really busy, you know? But I remember her coat and the cap because it was a really hot day. I thought she must have been boiling. And she said she loved the kanelbullar with caraway because they reminded her of home.’
Stella experienced a mental jolt as the young woman’s words sank in. She?
‘You’re certain it was a woman.’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
‘Well, she said her husband liked them, too. I mean that doesn’t mean anything, right, but I just thought…’
‘How about her face? Can you remember what she looked like?’
She frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I have this condition. Prosopagnosia? I can’t recognise faces. But it means I pay more attention to clothing and stuff to help me fix people.’
Stella smiled. ‘Is there anything else you remember. Or anything else she said?’
Natasha wrinkled her nose. ‘She had a really strong Swedish accent. I could tell because I listen to a podcast called My Swedish Life. I’d like to live there one day.’
Stella smiled again. Aiming for maximum reassurance. If Natasha was right, she may have been one of the people who spoke to the murderer on the day of the killing. Maybe the only person, apart from Brömly.
‘Think about her voice some more. How did it sound to you?’
Natasha closed her eyes and Stella could see the movements behind the lids as she swivelled them up, left, right and back again. Without opening them, she spoke.
‘Kind of light. Not high, but, you know, smooth. Not gruff or gritty like a guy’s voice. Gentle.’
‘And with a strong Swedish accent?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, eyes open again. Then they widened, an effect magnified by the lenses of her glasses. ‘Oh. She did say something strange. She asked me where the nearest tube station was. Only she called it the metro.’
Stella thanked them both and headed back to Paddington Green, picking up half a dozen kanellbullar on her way out.
Stella found Baz in conversation with Garry and the Swedish detective. She offered the buns round. All three men took one. She told them about her conversation with Natasha and outlined her conclusions.
The woman was a Swedish national. Her strong accent and reference to the ‘metro’ suggested she was a recent arrival. Either Inger or Kerstin had received Brömly’s letter, then flown to London to dissuade him from going public. He’d refused and she’d shot him. The tongue was a message to the other two.
Baz had been busy on his phone. ‘Guess how many Swedish nationals fly to London every month.’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Fifty thousand.’
Stella straightened her shoulders. ‘Right. As SIO, I’m calling this one,’ she said. ‘Everyone keep chasing down these lines of enquiry. I’m going to Sweden. That’s where we’ll find Brömly’s killer.’
Norgrim nodded. ‘I’ll call the embassy now. Do you need any help with credentials for the Swedish Police Authority?’
‘No thanks. I’ll get onto CPS. They’ll issue me a letter of introduction. Can you get hold of Anna Brömly’s medical records?’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘I want to know if she ever received treatment for infertility.’
On the way to Callie’s office, Cam stopped her. She’d taken on Rosh’s responsibilities and told Stella her confidential informant had come up with nothing. Stella didn’t care. She was convinced the answers lay far from the grimy fringes of the London underworld.
Callie authorised the trip immediately, concurring with Stella’s view that the killer – or the clue to their motive, and identity – would be in Sweden.
The meeting had been tense, with neither woman wanting to acknowledge the threat hanging over Stella. Instead they’d concentrated on the case. Only as Stella was leaving did Callie crack.
‘Watch yourself out there, Stel.’
Stella nodded and closed the door behind her.
Stella woke at 4.15 a.m. the next day. She’d booked a seat on a BA flight leaving for Stockholm from Heathrow at 1.35 p.m. She knew sleep would elude her if she closed her eyes again. She pulled on some pyjama bottoms and a black T-shirt.
She made a cup of coffee and some toast with peanut butter. She took her breakfast out onto the balcony and watched the sky lighten over west London.
Despite the promise of another hot day, the air still carried the chill of night. She wrapped her hands around her mug, enjoying the contrast between the heat of the coffee and the cold enveloping her.
Just as fast as it had arrived, the feeling of pleasure left her. She’d well and truly ruined her relationship with Jamie. He’d said he needed time. But that was what people always said. What they really meant was they needed to run a million miles in the opposite direction.
She sighed. Because as if trashing her love life wasn’t bad enough, she now had a vengeful and highly motivated Roisin Griffin on her case, literally.
What would she do if Roisin confronted her after her trip to the US? Bluff? Deny everything? Or arrange to meet her somewhere quiet and kill her in cold blood? Find a chainsaw and a pig farm?
Callie had intimated what would happen if Stella didn’t go along to get along. They’d send someone for her. Make it look like an accident, or a random nutter with a hard-on for cops. She’d like to see them try. Hadn’t worked out too well for Moxey, now had it?
No! She couldn’t, wouldn’t go there. Not yet.
Maybe Rosh wouldn’t solve Adam and Lynne’s murders. Maybe her plane would crash on the way home. Stella laughed harshly. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Make your own luck, Stel.
She went and changed into her running gear and was racing through Regent’s Park fifteen minutes later, alternating sprints with slow jogs, then dropping to the ground to do sets of ten press-ups before sprinting off again. She thought for a worrying moment that a white transit van was following her, but after checking over her shoulder to see it going down a side street, she relaxed. Getting jumpy, Stel.